


There Are No Paths to Follow

by EinahSirro



Series: How King Thorin Got a Slave [4]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Angst, Confusion, Indecision, M/M, Regret, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-18 14:21:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 18,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5931574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EinahSirro/pseuds/EinahSirro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo has left Thorin intending to return to the Shire. But it's a long journey, and there are dangers, and there is much to think about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Waiting

Thorin stood on the rock up on the terraces, his eyes straining toward Mirkwood. The distance was too great, and the party too small to be visible yet, but he waited, and watched. He’d slept last night only because he’d drunk enough ale to make him rather maudlin, and was grateful this morning that he’d drunk it alone, by his fireplace up in the royal chambers, and no one had heard him practice his many speeches to Bilbo. The speeches got increasingly sentimental as the night went on, and finally he’d stumbled off to bed.

He woke in the morning with a faint headache and a nasty taste in his mouth, but breakfast and tea had eventually set him right, and now he was restlessly waiting to see if Bilbo was going to return. Eventually, he grew worried that his behavior would be noticed, this lurking up on the terraces, staring at the plains. The king went in and tried to busy himself about the armory, requesting an update from the Division Officer, and nodding through it without a trace of comprehension. Then he smacked the fellow’s shoulder and commended him. The Division Officer looked gratified, not puzzled, so Thorin supposed that had been the correct response.

Chagrined at himself, he went to the Medical dispensary to consult with Kili and be steadfastly polite to Tauriel. Kili regarded him quizzically. “Are you well, Uncle?”

Thorin gave him a quick look. “Of course. Why would you ask?”

Kili shrugged, “You seem on edge.”

Thorin damned his lack of acting ability and admitted to a slight headache.

“Oh, I can help with that,” Tauriel said immediately, and went into a canister of powder to measure out some herbal mixture in a cup. Thorin decided not to refuse.

“You steep it in hot water, like tea,” she said, and the king gave a courtly bow and took it away with him.

They stared after him. “I think he misses that Hobbit,” said Kili. Behind him, Tauriel wrapped her arms around him and propped her chin on her husband’s head.

“I’m sure he does,” she said somberly. “…We all need someone to prop our chin on,” she added.

Kili reached back and tickled her, and soon they’d forgotten about their edgy king.

Thorin took the powder down to the kitchens, where the staff was a bit startled and flustered by the sudden entrance of the King of Erebor. Except Bombur, who was simply happy to see him, and delighted to make him some medicinal tea.

“Sit here, just sit here and drink it,” the portly dwarf said, and Thorin sank onto the bench with rather a relieved air. Bombur waved the rest of the staff away and the king was able to simply sit and be Thorin Oakenshield again for a bit. He drank his tea moodily.

“Touch of a hangover, eh?” Bombur asked, bringing a stack of menus to peruse as he lowered himself to the bench across from Thorin.

“A touch,” he admitted, eyes moving aimlessly about the kitchen.

“You need…” Bombur said, placing an incongruously delicate pair of eyeglasses on his face, “… a bit of companionship.” He fell to checking the menus.

Thorin’s thin lips almost curved into a smile. He hoped this was a good omen, that Bombur should open up this avenue of conversation so casually.

“I would indeed welcome … a bit of companionship.” He said carefully.

Bombur looked at him over the glasses. “What ever happened to that little fellow who liked the cookies?” He asked innocently.

Thorin opened his mouth and paused, not knowing how to answer. Before he could formulate something vague yet hopeful enough, one of the kitchen staff returned. “There’s a rider coming across the plains. It’s odd because it’s one of the four that we packed provisions for yesterday. Why is one coming back?”

Bombur heaved himself up back from the bench. “That is odd. I hope there’s nothing wrong.”

Thorin sat unmoving for a moment, knowing in an instant exactly what it meant: Bilbo was not coming back to him. 

He closed his eyes for a moment, and then opened them, steadied himself, and drank down his tea.

“I believe he was only escorting the others as far as Mirkwood because he had business of his own there,” he said coolly, and stood to go.

“Ah. Well then.” Bombur turned to his assistant and handed him the menus. “Tell cook to switch these two days, because the turkey won’t keep that long.”

Thorin left the kitchen and swept into a nearby stairwell where he simply stopped and leaned against the wall, arms folded resolutely. He needed a few moments alone before facing anyone. He stared down at the carved stone steps, his hands clutching his own arms, breathing slowly. When he’d finally composed himself, he worked his way back up to the Great Hall and was at hand when his guard returned through the open gates and asked Dwalin where his king was, as he had a report to make.

Thorin waved away anyone close enough to hear, and then listened, stone-faced, as the guard described Bilbo’s departure. No word, no note, no eye contact, no hesitation, only one backward glance, and into the woods without further ado. Very quiet but very decisive. He nodded, and thanked the guard for his time, and his discretion (which word the guard understood perfectly well.) 

Then, shutting his emotions off, Thorin went about the duties of his afternoon. He was at least no longer uncertain, he told himself, and then decided on a tour of the furnaces. It was too loud down there for anyone to try and hold a conversation. He didn’t feel like talking right now.


	2. On the Road

The ponies rode single-file through Mirkwood, staying carefully on the path. Bofur led the way, occasionally turning back to look at Bilbo. The Hobbit merely clutched the pony’s reins, and a bit of his mane, and stared somewhere between the animal’s furry, pointed ears. From what the dwarf could see, Bilbo wasn’t thinking anything over. His eyes weren’t moving back and forth the way one’s did when they were gazing at the paths or images of the mind, or remembering past scenes. He just stared at the pony’s ears, his head bobbing gently as they plodded along.

Bofur faced front again with a sigh. He hoped the journey to Rivendell would be quick. The silence of his companions was not cheering. It was now their third day of the journey, and he anticipated the lightening of the path before them as they neared the far edge of Mirkwood. It was interesting to Bofur that no Elves had appeared to intercept their passage, or suss out this strange little traveling party. Surely they were watching from invisible posts in the trees.

Certainly the Mirkwood Elves recognized that a small party of Dwarfs--and one Hobbit--coming from Erebor, was a strange sight, especially given that said Hobbit was long since known to have left the Lonely Mountain by eagle some half a year ago. Odd to see him back in this area again, and particularly odd to see him going in what one would think to be the opposite direction he should, for how did he get there in the first place, to be returning?

Yes, Bofur was certain there was speculation. He almost expected trouble. Thranduil had snatched Bilbo once, and held him for ransom. One could reasonably expect that it would occur to him to do it again, and yet… yes, there was the light at the edge of the forest. Bofur instinctively nudged his pony to greater speed, not that there was really any safety outside the forest. Just… Wood Elves tended to prefer to act where no one could see them.

Just as Bofur was sure they were in the clear, the armed Woodland Elves surrounded them on the path, and the whole party came to a rearing halt. The three dwarf guards pulled their axes, but the Elves did not even bother to ready their bows or spears. They simply surrounded the dwarfs--who reigned in their nervously prancing ponies--and regarded them curiously. After a silent moment of mutual staring, the Elves on the path before them parted, and Thranduil himself stepped between them and approached. He was simply dressed today, with no bizarre headdresses or antlers springing from his head. Bofur was glad not to have to smirk at the father of his idol. He could just stare at that hair and think how some family traits were quite attractive.

“Put your axes down, you are surrounded and outclassed,” The Elf King murmured calmly, and tipped his head to stare first at Bofur, and then past Bofur at Bilbo. “Well, well.”

Bilbo’s eyes traveled up to Thranduil, registered him, and then drifted back down again.

“This is an interesting development. The famous Hobbit of Erebor, traveling away from his adoring, slightly psychotic king.” The Elf observed silkily.

Bofur, having learned silence from Bilbo, maintained it. The guards looked to him in some confusion, but no one said a word.

Thranduil noted the odd silence, and Bilbo’s lifeless expression. “Could it be there is trouble in paradise?” He asked archly. Bofur looked back at Bilbo as if he expected a reply, but he knew there would be none. True to form, Bilbo stared at the pony’s ears patiently.

Eyebrows lifted, Thranduil took another step toward Bilbo. “Could it be you would not fetch nearly as high a ransom as you once commanded? Once, you were worth the Arkenstone. But look at you now. You seem positively broken-hearted. Could I even get a necklace in return for your safety today?”

Bilbo, despite his listless appearance, was no longer so deep in his own pain that he could not hear, and the Elf King’s taunting observation drew an image in his mind of himself, in a cage or cell, waiting indefinitely while his angry, rejected lover contemplated whether he would buy his Hobbit’s return in chains, or leave him to rot in answer to his abandonment.

It seemed to Bilbo, suddenly, that he was doomed to simply move from one prison to another for the rest of his life. And the worst of it was, it was his own fault. The first time he’d been captured by Orcs, he had ventured… oh, far too far from home.

Then, when he’d finally attained his freedom, deposited on his own front door, practically, by a ruffled, irritable eagle… it hadn’t been 3 months before he was off again, placing himself back in the hands of his last Master. And when his Master made it clear that accompanying him on his quest to be, once again, King, Bilbo would be voluntarily relinquishing his freedom once more… he had gone! Willingly! Thrust himself back into danger.

And now here he was, on the path of Mirkwood, facing the possibility of being captured and enslaved yet again: a hostage of ever devaluing worth, but still perhaps a chip to barter with. Depression settled over him like a black cape. I am alone, he thought again, and I am a fool, and his eyelids grew heavy.

Bofur, meanwhile, was not about to give up Bilbo without a fight, but he waited, thinking it was possible that the Hobbit’s dejected demeanor might do his job for him.

Thranduil’s face registered his puzzlement that the Hobbit did not respond to his baiting. He turned to Bofur. “He looks terrible. Did your fickle king indeed throw him off?” His tone was merely curious.

Bofur shrugged. “As you see,” he said simply, and then closed his mouth again. Sometimes, if you played dead, they let you go.

Thranduil appeared to think this over.

“Father,” called out a voice from behind them that made Bofur’s heart start thumping. He turned to see the shining blond head of Legolas reflecting the tepid sunlight as he emerged from the trees. “Father, don’t torment something so wounded,” he said reproachfully, and then stepped past the dwarf guards, who made as if to reach for their axes again, but Bofur frantically waved them down. 

Legolas approached Bilbo and put a careful hand on his knee. He tipped his head, much like his father, but on him it was a gentle, endearing movement. His kind eyes searched Bilbo’s blank face intently. “He is very hurt,” the Elf Prince breathed, and then turned and directed those searing eyes at Bofur. “Are you taking him to Rivendell?”

“I am,” Bofur managed, staring at Legolas as if he were the sun. The Prince nodded thoughtfully and turned to inspect Bilbo again. “I will accompany you,” he said with characteristic directness. “I have business there. Ride on; I will catch up.”

Thranduil gave his son a cynical look. “Ever the savior,” he said curtly, but his son merely gave him a glance that was equal parts fondness and exasperation. Clearly these two were still not rowing together terribly well. Bofur decided to take their passing through as given, and nudged his pony forward, guiding it carefully around Thranduil, who still stood in the path as if not entirely sure he’d let them go.

But he did, turning his head and watching closely as the tense guards followed the drooping Halfling single file past him. With one more rather mocking glance at his son, Thranduil gave a jerk of his head, and the Elves disappeared into the woods. Legolas watched them go with a slight shake of his head. Then he, too, vanished, only to reappear less than an hour later, astride a galloping white horse. 

When Legolas broke from the woods, Bofur heard the thundering hooves and looked back to enjoy the sight of the Elf of his dreams speeding toward them, leaning over his mount’s neck, his hair streaming back even as the horse’s silver mane streamed back. By Mahal, what a sight it was, and Bofur let his reins go slack as he watched the approach with dazzled eyes.

When Legolas reached them, he pulled up and fixed those bright eyes on Bofur. “You needn’t wait,” he said simply.

“Didn’t want you to get lost and me have to come and save you,” Bofur said as cheekily as he could.

Legolas, with his usual complete lack of humor, only looked at him as if he were mad and then turned his attention to the faint trail leading toward the distant Misty Mountains. They started their trek again, and the Elf looked often at Bilbo with clear concern in his honest eyes. Bofur watched Legolas with equal attention, wishing he could pour all that white gold goodness all over himself like some sort of cleansing bath. And then he wouldn’t be short, and grubby, and peculiar anymore.

Bilbo, meanwhile, simply plodded along. He was aware that Legolas had joined them, that Thranduil had let them pass, that perhaps he had escaped captivity this time. His despair lifted somewhat and returned to its previous levels of merely despondent. Despite what Bofur thought, Bilbo was thinking, after a fashion. He was feeling his inner shame, and longing for rest. Not just the rest of stopping for the night and curling up in his bedroll (though he was looking forward to that as well) but the rest of finally being home. Safe. Free. Quiet. Done.


	3. The Restless King

Thorin avoided his bedchamber these days. He woke in the morning, usually curled around pillows he’d pulled down and pinioned in his sleep, and rolled out of the bed quickly. He groomed himself briskly, pulled on his clothing, and left the chambers immediately. He no longer ate there at all. It was easier (he told himself) to skip the morning meal, or join Balin in his offices to have a coffee. There were duties and reports enough to keep him busy till lunch, where he developed the habit of dropping in on the Medical dispensary, and accepting a share of Kili and Tauriel’s meal (they soon learned to order larger lunches.) 

Then, in the afternoon, it was pleasant enough to go out the gates of Erebor and into the open air to oversee the training maneuvers of the ever-evolving army that Dain’s more trustworthy generals were gradually molding.

Sometimes Thorin ate with the soldiers, and enjoyed their hearty camaraderie. His own kind, he told himself. Dwarfs should perhaps just stick with other dwarfs. They understood each other, culturally. The rough jokes, the bawdy singing, the abrupt, deadpan insults that passed as humor… they were familiar to him. He did not join in, sitting a little apart, benign but removed, as befit a king. But he was comfortable amongst them.

Other evenings there were state dinners, necessary evils, at the long, well-appointed dining hall, often hosting Men from Dale and Elves from Mirkwood, and the occasional visitor from farther afield. These affairs were lengthy and time-consuming, and Thorin hated them less for all that. They kept him busy, and distracted him from the empty silence of the royal chambers.

Sometimes, late at night, he dropped in on Dwalin in his bachelor’s quarters, and shared a pint or two. They never talked about anything personal. Dwalin had no personal life to speak of, and he had never, ever once approved of the Hobbit, so Thorin was at least safe from any of the chance remarks that occasionally slipped from many of the others.

Ori was the worst. Absolutely wistful. He knew that Bilbo had been expected to accompany Thorin, and “something had happened” and now Bilbo would not be living in Erebor. His tender young heart was aching for both of them, for he was certain that they were star-crossed lovers sorely tried by fate. He was too in awe of Thorin to press for explanations, but he hinted, and Thorin could tell what the hinting was about. It stopped him from having tea in the library.

But sooner or later, the king would have to mount the stairs to the corridors that led to the royal chambers, and he actually contemplated moving out. He was afraid, however, that it would raise too many questions. So he went, most unwillingly, and ran his bath, and readied himself for bed with stern self-control. His only weakness was a tendency to wander over to the little maple writing desk, and leaf through Bilbo’s drawing pad.

Some of the pictures cheered him: the pictures of the Shire rather fascinated him, as he’d never actually been inside Bilbo’s home. The ones of the Blue Mountain sent a sweet, nostalgic ache through his chest. The one of Smaug amused him, for the dragon looked very much as he remembered him, and Bilbo’s drawing had perfectly captured that combination of ill-temper and self-regard that was your average dragonic attitude.

It was the last drawing that hurt. Thorin shuddered to look upon it. It was merely a perfect rendition of the room he was in now, and if he turned his head toward the fireplace, he saw a replica of that which was on the pad… but for one thing. In his chair was a black shape that Bilbo had refused to fill in with anything but shadows. However, the silhouette was so perfectly Thorin, it may as well have been a cameo.

The shadow sat in the chair at the small table they’d dined at, leaning forward, one arm resting on the table. The head was bowed. The hair flowed down his back. His profile was etched perfectly against the flames of the fireplace, from the high forehead, to the long, sharp nose, to the chin and the close beard. The entire effect was of utter dejection and loneliness, and of course, the chair across from him was empty.

Thorin always peeked at it, the way one gingerly re-examines a nightmare, or picks at a scab to see if it is still too tight to remove, as if hoping to find that the pain is gone. But the pain was never gone, nor did it change. It grew neither worse nor better. It stayed exactly the same: a bitterness in his sternum, an odd taste in the mouth, a slight constriction of the chest… and then Thorin would close the pad and tell himself that he ought to throw the damn things into the fire.

Then his heart would seize up even more, as if angry at him, and he would sigh and go to bed.

In the morning, he would rise and do it all again. 

Being a methodical sort, Thorin kept careful track of how many times during the day he forgot his sadness, for it had to be admitted: he did forget for up to ten or fifteen minutes at a time that Bilbo was gone. He could be distracted, if he was deep in the details of some legal dispute that only The King Under the Mountain could settle, or being updated on the minutia of some trading agreement under its fifth renegotiation at the insistence of Thranduil (tree-hugging, antler wearing … a two-legged dragon with hair was what Thranduil was).

Thorin could forget for several minutes when he watched the formations of his army as they shifted from one maneuver to the next under the bright winter sun. Often a tour of the forges, with white-hot sparks shooting from the furnaces, or a glance over the armory and the well-stocked, highly polished inventory, could divert him for several minutes.

Other areas, however, were NOT good for distraction. The terraces were a cemetery and he hated them now, although he routinely went out on them anyway, to gaze toward Mirkwood. Why he did this, he could not have said. And that tapestry that Dain had commissioned… Thorin occasionally found himself standing near the railing around the dining table and staring down on that tapestry with a most discontented scowl. 

It took a few days for him to realize why he hated that tapestry now. It wasn’t the memory of its initial unveiling (well, perhaps a bit), but the fact that… supposedly it depicted the most memorable portion of Thorin’s life: the reclaiming of Erebor.

But there was no little Hobbit in it. There should be, just one depiction of Bilbo in a corner, puttering about the table, or merely gazing up at him… Thorin lifted his head and realized that he had no likeness of Bilbo anywhere. No sketch, no drawing, no silhouette, no portrait. He’d left behind a few odds and ends, but nothing that Thorin could gaze at and see anything to remind, or comfort, or torment him.

Not even a lock of hair. Thorin leaned back from the railing and turned away. _Don’t brood in public,_ he told himself. _They’ll see and they’ll wonder._ But he couldn’t go to his rooms to brood, it was too painful. _Don’t brood at all, then,_ he thought in exasperation. _Keep busy. Keep busy. Just keep busy._


	4. The Perils of Travel

Bilbo’s traveling party was now at the most scenic and picturesque portion of the journey, the rolling hills littered with huge drop stones and random outcroppings of stacked, precariously balanced rocks that gave one the impression that tiny supernatural beings lived in the crevices between them. It was beautiful, but rumor had it that increasingly, it was Orc country. 

They fell into a pattern of travel: Legolas led the way, and Bofur was usually at his side. Bilbo lagged behind, and the three guards trailed him rather closely, as his safety was their responsibility. 

“I’m glad ye’ve joined us,” Bofur ventured, on their second day together. “Bilbo doesn’t talk much anymore.”

Legolas narrowed his eyes thoughtfully and stared off into the distance. “Yes. He is very different than he was when I first met him.”

“I wish he’d tell me what happened,” Bofur added.

Legolas mused, “It may be that he needs someone who is …not a Dwarf to talk to.”

“I don’t see why. I mean… being hurt isn’t something only another Hobbit can understand.”

“No, but if you have felt tormented by strangers, it can be difficult to trust any of them any longer. Imagine if I took you as my slave and made you live in Mirkwood with me,” Legolas said calmly, unaware that the words nearly made Bofur fall off his pony. “Imagine you saw no one but myself and a few other Elves. I think you would be very unhappy. And you would not want to confide in any of us.”

Bofur rode in silence beside him, eyes glazed over. Legolas assumed he had made his point and wandered innocently to another topic, while Bofur tried to unscramble his brains. 

“By the way, my father had no intention of taking Bilbo hostage again. I hope you know that. He was only curious and digging about for information. He values the peaceful trading relationship we have with your people now.” Legolas said with a friendly glance down at Bofur.

“Ah,” Bofur managed, still trying to get his cartwheeling senses back under control.

“He mentioned it to his heir just a few days ago,” Legolas added, keeping his keen eyes on the horizon, always alert for danger.

“His heir? I thought you were his heir.” Bofur said, trying to focus.

“Oh, no, I’m a younger son.”

“You’re not going to be King of Mirkwood one day?” Bofur asked, more to make conversation than anything else.

“Unlikely. My brother will inherit, and he already has two sons to inherit after him,” Legolas said easily. “I am fortunate; I am a Prince, but I am in no danger of being King.” His eyes crinkled up in one of his rare smiles.

Bofur rallied himself and said cheekily, “Well, I’m glad you aren’t going to make me your slave then. I’d only want to be slave to the king.”

The Elf’s smile grew to a chuckle. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, and Bofur risked a glance up at him. That smile was like a spear through his heart, but the pain was magnificent.

Suddenly, behind him, one of the guards spoke. It was merely a “What?” But Bofur and Legolas both glanced back to see that Bilbo had pulled up the reins and brought his pony to a halt. His eyes were wide and alert in a way that Bofur hadn’t seen in weeks.

The Hobbit turned his face this way and that, eyes searching, and then lifted his nose as if he smelled something.

“Orc,” he finally said hoarsely.

Legolas had his bow at the ready in a flash, and Bofur drew his axe.

“Where?!” He called.

Bilbo didn’t answer, but his agitated tugs at the reins were making his pony back in a jittery circle, and his head was turning left and right quickly; it was obvious that he didn’t know where, he could simply SMELL Orc. Of course, Bofur realized: he’d been a slave of them for years. He knew their smell.

Now they were all turning in circles, desperately searching the uneven green terrain. It was difficult: the rocks could all hide Orcs. The rocks were, in fact, the same color as Orcs, so the foul creatures had a definite camouflage advantage. Legolas gestured to Bofur.

“You see that boulder atop the pile over there, before the cliff?” 

The dwarf looked over at the distant formation and nodded quickly.

“Beneath it is a tunnel. Take Bilbo and the guards and go. I’ll be right behind.” The Elf’s eyes never stopped scanning as he spoke.

For a moment, Bofur’s instinct was to flatly refuse to leave the Elf’s side. But then he glanced over at the silently frantic Hobbit clutching his reins, blue eyes huge. His duty to Thorin was to guard Bilbo. Biting his lips, his stomach churning, he gave a quick wave to the other four and gestured for them to follow. Without words, the four Dwarfs and the Hobbit galloped toward the formation just as a chorus of guttural shouts came from behind a nearby hill. 

Rising up as if from the ground came a hunting party of Orcs, twelve at least, mounted on their huge, slavering Wargs. It was clear they had sighted the fleeing party and now the chase was on.

Legolas twisted on his horse and leaned, and the well-trained animal turned obligingly. The Elf let loose a lightning-fast volley of arrows, his lithe frame easily swaying with the movements of his mount as he calmly dropped one Orc after another, and neatly executed the vicious creatures they rode on as well. Soon he’d cut their numbers nearly in half… but the remainder was almost upon him.

He kneed his white horse in the direction of his smaller charges, who were nearly at the boulder he’d directed them to. Neck stretched, mane and tail flying, the beautiful creature galloped full speed toward the gray formation, leaping gracefully over the smaller rocks that littered the rolling hills. Legolas saw his friends reach the boulder and tumble off their ponies, saw one guard locate the opening beneath it and disappear down it, and saw Bilbo follow. The ponies galloped off in separate directions, ears flat with panic.

Now the Elf turned to fight again, confident that the other three Dwarfs would soon be safely down in the tunnel. He brought around his bow and sent another arrow cleanly through an oncoming Orc’s throat and a second one into his mount’s head. And then they were upon him, too close for arrows.

Leaping down from the horse and drawing a sword in each hand, Legolas turned into a silver, slashing dervish, whirling and slicing, dancing now up onto a rocky outcrop, leaping over Orcish heads, attacking from three directions at once.

The remaining six Orcs split into two groups, one disappearing behind the boulders as if hunting for their vanished prey, the other three remaining to combat the willowy Prince, whose apparent delicacy, they quickly realized, was an illusion. He fought with the slightest of smiles on his lips, eyes burning with concentration, arms moving almost too quickly to see. One Orc was chopped down, and then a second.

He whirled to face the third only to find it falling toward him with an axe in its head. To his mild surprise, Bofur was behind it, hat knocked crooked, watching it fall with satisfaction.

“That’s one,” was all the Elf had time to say with a smile, before Bofur jumped over the dead Orc, grabbed him by the wrist, and dragged him toward the shelter under the boulder. Amused, Legolas let himself be dragged, until he realized that the Dwarf intended to pull him right down the slippery, sloping entrance and into the tunnel.

“Wait—“ he cried, his smile vanishing. For one thing, the tunnel, last he knew, no longer had a second exit: a heavy rain years ago had caved it in. His plan had been to remain above ground, kill the Orcs, and then use the rope in his saddlebag to help the others climb back out again, for the entrance was deep. His second concern was his beloved white horse: he had no intention of leaving it unguarded to be killed and eaten by Orcs and Wargs.

But Bofur, thinking only of saving his hero, grabbed his wrist and his waist and rolled forward in a tackling dive, and the usually graceful Elf went sliding down under the boulder and into the dank cave beneath with an awkward scramble that looked rather like some sea birds look when they try to land.

Their tumbling descent ended with a thump, and for a moment, there was only a writhing tangle of Dwarf, Hobbit, and Elf in a pile before they managed to extricate themselves and become separate entities again. For a moment, they all sat panting, gazing up at the entrance to see if the Orcs found it and tried to follow. But the patch of blue sky visible was unobstructed, and as they all gradually brought their breathing under control, they noticed two things.

One, it was quiet. There were no Orc calls, no Warg snarls, no screams of horses or ponies being slaughtered. 

Two, there were only five of them in the cave. Shouldn’t there have been six?


	5. And Then There Were Five

It only took a moment to ascertain that one of the Dwarf guards was missing.

“He was our archer,” one of the remaining guards explained. “My cousin. He was going to climb up on the rock and fire down from there.”

Legolas paced with exasperation. Then he stopped. “If they have killed him, we are trapped down here,” he said to the group at large. “You see the way is blocked,” he pointed to the darkness where the path vanished under a pile of rubble. 

They all turned and went to inspect the situation. The tunnel was completely caved in with loose dirt and stones. Bilbo tried carefully climbing it, to see if there might be a small opening at the top, but it there was none. He slid back down, shaking his head morosely. 

They listened again for any signs of Orcs, or the other guard. Nothing.

Now Legolas tried to climb the smooth rock down which they had slid, but a slimy covering of moss made it slick as ice, and even an Elf could not catch a foothold.

They regrouped to consider.

After a moment, Bilbo glanced at the loose rubble blocking the back and commented, “This was easy to climb.”

They all looked back and forth between the rubble and the slick entrance, and as one began scooping up rocks and stones and hurling them over toward the foot of the entrance, hoping to build up a pile they could climb on. It was dirty work, but eventually they had a rock pile large enough for the Elf to stand upon and almost reach the entrance.

Legolas tried to climb the last bit a few times, but slid back each time. Finally he turned to them. “I could perhaps boost one of you up over my head,” he suggested, his fine brow wrinkled in mild distress. “But I cannot climb it and I do not want to send anyone up there alone.”

To everyone’s surprise, Bilbo stepped forward. “I’ll go,” he said quietly, and gave the edges of his jacket a little downward tug to straighten them.

“Nah, you’re the reason we’re here,” Bofur said without thinking, and Bilbo gave him an astounded look.

“No, I don’t mean it’s yer fault, I just mean… we have to protect you. The whole point was to get you safely home. You can’t be the one to go up there.” Bofur amended.

Bilbo sighed and cleared his throat. “I’m the smallest, and the lightest.” He said. “He could toss me up there. If the Orcs are still out there, I’ll just jump back down again.”

It was the most he’d said in weeks. It felt odd to speak at all. But the others were looking at one another as if what he said did make sense, and so, though Bofur didn’t like it, Bilbo scrambled up onto the rocks, Legolas lifted him up easily, and hurled him right up through the opening. He landed on the grass outside on all fours.

Bilbo jumped to his feet and looked around quickly. No Orcs. Well, no live ones. Dead ones all over the place. He crept all the way around the formation, but there was not a live Orc in sight. Nor did he find the other guard, alive or dead. The ponies were calmly eating grass in various places, and Legolas’s white horse waited anxiously nearby, nodding its fine head in a high-tempered manner.

The Hobbit was baffled. But after a moment, he went back to the opening under the boulder and looked down at the faces tipped up at him. “All clear,” he said, and Legolas directed him to the rope in the saddlebag.

Within a quarter of an hour, the rest of the party had been extricated from the cave and were wandering uneasily about, eyes narrowed and alert for any sign of movement among the gray rocks. Ears pricked for any sound. But there was nothing.

“They didn’t even kill the ponies,” Bofur mused.

Legolas, meanwhile, was stepping carefully about the boulder, eyes on the ground. “They took the other guard… there was a struggle… they took him alive…”

He followed the churned up ground until the churning flattened out and became separate prints. Then he lifted his head and surveyed the area. “They took a pony too. Probably bound him and put him over the saddle, and led it away.”

“Why would they take him alive?” Bofur asked uneasily.

“Questioning,” said one of the other guards, grimly.

“Sport,” Legolas added.

“Slave?” Bilbo asked. They looked at one another again. No one knew which answer was right, but none of them were good.

There was a moment of silence. Then the Elf Prince turned to them resolutely. “You four continue on toward Rivendell. I will go after your compatriot.”

Bofur looked as if he would protest, but he stopped himself. He had a duty. And the Elf was extremely capable of defending himself. So he straightened himself to his full height, adjusted his picturesque hat, and nodded curtly. 

“You’ll catch up?” He asked, his eyes devouring Legolas as if he feared this was their last meeting. 

Legolas, who had no such fear, smirked down at him. “Don’t I always?” He asked in his usual sanguine manner. And then, eyes gleaming with the pleasure of the hunt, he leapt up onto his horse like a cat leaping up into a chair. With no further farewell, he galloped off in the direction of the tracks. Bofur stared after him, and then set about yanking the Elf's arrows from the dead Orcs, so he could return them if Legolas came back to them. When. When Legolas came back to them.

The other two guards set to rounding up the ponies, which took a while, as the ponies enjoyed freedom and pretended to be frightened, and frolicked about for a few minutes until they consented to be brought back to their riders. They left the dead Orcs and Wargs where they lay, for it was getting dark and Bofur wanted to be in the shadows of the foothills before they pitched camp.

Glumly, the remaining four fell into a tight formation and trotted toward the rising ground. The foothills would grow steeper and sharper the farther they traveled, until they arrived at the pass that would lead through the mountains to Rivendell. If nothing else went wrong.

Bilbo kept up with Bofur now, aware that the fate of the guard, and possibly of Legolas, was due to him. As Bofur had said so unthinkingly: they were there because of him. It was not a cheering thought to know that his foolish decisions, his impulsive lovesickness, had far-reaching repercussions that not only caused him to damn himself, but had endangered others as well.

 _If I get back to the Shire,_ he told himself, _I’ll never leave again. I’ll stay, and quietly grow old and die, and not do anything to put myself or anyone else in peril again._


	6. Reasons for Regret

By the fifth day of what Thorin tried to think of as My Life Now, he had bullied himself into believing that he was no worse off without his Hobbit. The fact was, he told himself, striding about Erebor, he was merely back to where he had been when they first arrived. Less than a year ago. 

Less than a year ago, he reminded himself, he and Fili and Kili had been picking through the dusty rubble littering their abandoned kingdom. He had been happy! The dragon was dead, the mountain reclaimed, he and his nephews were having a high time of it, wading through the gold, filling and lighting long cold lanterns, moving broken debris from the corridors, firing up the forges and fireplaces, and watching the mountain slowly come to life again.

Remember that first moment Fili found the Arkenstone, he told himself, and recalled their joy. 

Remember that moment you gazed upon the broken, dusty throne and vowed you would fix it, and be seated upon it. 

Remember entering your father’s rooms and knowing that you are King now.

Remember finding a pathetic, huddled form with tragic eyes—

He shook his head impatiently, and then grew internally tense to realize that his brain was replaying that moment, long forgotten. He found a sad, starved creature in chains, and he had… left him in chains to continue exploring his reclaimed kingdom.

Thorin drew a breath in through his nose and noticed Dwalin standing guard before the open main entrance of Erebor. Relief coursed through him. Dwalin was always a bracing presence. The king headed for his friend just as the party of traders returning from Dale all turned and stared out the gates as if something attention-getting was approaching from the plains.

Dwalin turned also, and stiffened. Alerted, Thorin came forward, eyes intent. They widened when he realized that a riderless pony decked with Dain’s colors was cantering toward the Lonely Mountain. The creature was still in full trappings, reins trailing as it ran, and every Dwarf near the entrance stared as it drew abreast of the gate and slowed to a weary walk. Dwalin and several others surged forward, alarmed by his pony’s heaving sides, and the smears of blood on the saddle and blanket.

It was Dwalin who the pony went to, as if recognizing a commanding figure with an underlying compassion, and the exhausted thing put its forehead to Dwalin’s shoulder and nudged him, as if hoping for an apple, or some soothing words. The rugged Dwarf stroked the pony’s neck reassuringly, and looked at the make of the saddle, examined the mottling on its haunches.

“This is one of the ponies we sent the guards out on… with Bofur,” he said, turning to his king. Thorin, turning pale, understood immediately the tact with which Dwalin left out “and Bilbo.”

***

An hour later, a council of sorts had formed about the long table. Thorin, Dwalin, Balin, and Kili sat tensely to confer. 

Thorin’s hands were gripping the edge of the table, white-knuckled. All his previous acceptance was exposed to himself mere delusion. He was frantic. “I will lead the search party. Dwalin and Kili, you stay here to take charge of Erebor. Nori and Dori I want with me, and I’ll take a squadron from our troops, mostly Dain’s men. I hate to admit it, but they have more training.”

Balin was already shaking his white head. “You can’t go, Laddie, you’re too valuable now to risk on a search party for a small group of travelers. You’re the king.”

“What kind of King sits back when—“ but Thorin was interrupted.

“It’s a Hobbit, a toy-maker, and three guards.” Dwalin said bluntly. “In the scheme of things, they don’t warrant a king risking his life. I’ll go. For Bofur.”

“I will go,” Thorin insisted. “If anything happens to me, Kili is my heir.”

Kili turned pale but said nothing.

Again Balin (and Dwalin too) shook their heads. “He’s married to an Elf. Not just any Elf. A Mirkwood Elf. The Dwarfs would see him as the beginning of the end of Dwarfs as an independent race.”

Kili sighed, and Balin gave him an apologetic look. “You know how they are.”

Thorin rose, stalked a few steps from the table, and then returned again, eyes burning with determination. “I’ll take her with me.”

There was a startled silence. Kili stared at his uncle, aghast. “No—“ he protested.

Thorin barely glanced at him. “She’s a warrior. Let us not forget she was a King’s Guard before you domesticated her,” he said rather bitterly to his nephew.

“But—“ was all Kili managed.

“If I don’t come back, she doesn’t come back,” Thorin said flatly. “And you will be King. It will be your duty, and I do not want to hear any more about it.”

Kili was on his feet now. “No. No, I won’t have this. I can’t—how can you ask—“

Suddenly, a smooth voice cut through the tension. “I will go with King Thorin.”

They all turned to see Tauriel coming toward the table calmly, her graceful form moving silently through the shadows and torchlight. “He is right,” she added simply. “I am an Elf, but I am a warrior. I can help.” She gave her stricken husband’s cheek a caress with one delicate hand. “I can help ensure your uncle returns, and you are not tasked with a life of overseeing property disputes, and growing fat on the throne.” She smiled down at him.

Kili took her hand in his and shook his head, looking as if tears would fill his eyes. Thorin gave him a glower of disgust, but held his tongue.

Balin slapped his hands on the table, gaining everyone’s attention for a moment. 

“NO. Thorin, you cannot go. Our situation here is not yet stable. It has been mere weeks since Dain left. This is no time to go running off after—“ he paused.

“The Hobbit that left you.” Dwalin finished in a growl.

Thorin leaned over the table, his braids swinging forward, the white streaks in his hair catching the light of the candles – were there more of them now? The lines from his nose to his mouth were carved deep with anger.

“I am the King. I decide,” he bit out, and then turned and marched away toward the armory. Dwalin made as if to follow, but Balin lifted his hand. “Let me.”

Balin followed the retreating figure out of sight, and finally cornered Thorin outside the armory, brandishing one finger under his nose quite fearlessly. All his crusty deference had vanished.

“You—“ he said, “do not listen to anyone. This is NOT how you told me you wanted to lead.”

Thorin leaned up against the wall, glaring down at his old friend. Only decades of trust and companionship allowed a Dwarf to put his finger up under a King’s nose that way.

“It’s Bilbo and Bofur.” Thorin said meaningfully.

Balin nodded. “I understand. But a king cannot leave his people on a mission of this sort. Your responsibility is here. You send a rescue party. You send Dwalin, Tauriel if she wants to go, a squadron of soldiers—a small one! But you… you must stay here to guard, protect, and wait.”

Thorin looked away, clearly thrumming with anxiety. The old Dwarf continued relentlessly. “It’s your duty. It’s why you came back.” Balin pointed out, hands on his hips now. His old face was compassionate, but he wasn’t giving an inch. “Thorin, you have to be willing to at least consider advice. My advice to you is to send Dwalin and Tauriel, if she’ll go—“

“If she goes, Kili will want to go with her,” Thorin warned.

Balin nodded thoughtfully. “Rather he didn’t. Better not send her, then.”

Thorin heaved a sigh, realizing that he was already accepting his counselor’s advice. Whom to send, whom not to send. In his place. He didn’t like it, but he knew Balin was right.

He felt sick. He never should have let Bilbo out of the mountain. Traumatized or not, he’d been safe up in Thorin’s rooms. He began to castigate himself. _I should have made him come out of it. I should have wrapped my arms around him and held him until he couldn’t ignore me anymore. I should have… taken him out on the terraces. Let him sit in the sunshine. I should have held him down by the hair and kissed him till he responded… I should have…_

_I should have..._


	7. Making Camp

When they made camp for the night, the younger guard, whose name, Bilbo finally found out, was Narvi, wondered if they should just pitch one tent and tuck into it together, for safety. Khim, the older Dwarf, cousin of the captured Pim, shook his grizzled head.

“Pitch two. The larger a party we appear to be, the less likelihood of another attack.”

Bofur nodded. “We won’t have a campfire. No wood around here anyway. We have candles in the packs. I say we turn in as soon as it’s dark, and rise with the first light.”

Thus it was that, at dusk, Bilbo found himself curled wearily on his bedroll very near Bofur, a single candle flickering between them. They had dined on dried fruit and flat bread, having neither of them much appetite. Now they both lay lost in their thoughts, but quietly grateful for the other’s presence. 

Finally, Bilbo spoke just above a whisper. “How long now have you loved him?”

Bofur took a deep breath. He lay with his hands clasped behind his head, staring up at the faint bit of candlelight dancing on the inside of the tent. “First time I saw him, we were captured coming through Mirkwood. Locked in cells. Hopeless. Then suddenly Kili had keys… pretty sure Tauriel had a hand in that.”

“Is that when they met?” Bilbo asked.

Bofur nodded. “And we had to hide in empty wine barrels that were dropped into the river.”

Bilbo started grinning. “You’re making this up.”

“Swear to Mahal, we were floating down the river, a Dwarf in every barrel. The Elven Royal Guard came out to stop us, and then they were attacked by Orcs, and everyone was fighting everyone else all at once.”

The Hobbit listened, wide-eyed. 

“And there were Orcs everywhere. Suddenly, in the midst of them, this skinny blond Elf just came dancing through, leaping from rock to rock like a squirrel, hair flying out behind him like ribbons. And he was sending arrows into Orcs so fast and easy… with no more effort than how Bombur peels potatoes.”

“But that’s terrible…” Bilbo said seriously.

Bofur stared at him.

“The skins are the best part,” Bilbo informed him.

Bofur laughed for the time that evening. 

“Go on, then,” Bilbo said, grinning.

“Ah. It was amazing to watch him. He seemed to have eyes in the back of his head. He took out two Orcs with one arrow. He twirled his sword like a glittering windmill and … heads just fell off.”

Bilbo winced. “That’s… very poetic.”

“Oh, it was poetry, it was. The only time he was in actual danger, an Orc was behind him with an axe, and he wasn’t aware. I was already heart-hit. Staring at him, thinking ‘don’t let this gorgeous thing die.’” He paused for a moment. “Then I saw Thorin’s axe come through the air, end over end—“

Bilbo grew very still, and his eyes dropped to stare at the candle.

“Planted in that Orc’s head nice as you please. I think that’s when Legolas decided to let us go. He knew Thorin had saved him. I don’t even know why he did; Thorin hates Elves. But he … “

Bofur looked over at Bilbo. Then he rolled on his side. “I want to say: I’m glad you’re leaving him, if he hurt you. But he’s not a bad dwarf. I mean… he has good in him. A lot of good. And he’s a fine warrior.”

Bilbo nodded absently. 

“He does throw a mean axe,” said a calm voice just outside the tent.

Bofur and Bilbo both startled, and sat up.

“I suppose you meant to post a guard once it was dark,” the voice added, with a touch of humor in it.

Bofur scrambled out of the tent so fast, he nearly knocked over the candle. Bilbo grappled with it, getting a bit of hot wax on him, and finally was able to follow the Dwarf out of the tent with the candle clutched in his hand.

Legolas stood between the two tents, his white skin and blond hair nearly glowing in the last of the twilight. Narvi gaped up at him from the flap of the other tent. A moment later, Khim came lurching from some rocks a distance away, tugging up his pants.

“I was watching! I just heard the Call of Nature, is all,” the older Dwarf informed them.

Legolas tipped his head quizzically, eyes dancing. “I nearly dozed off waiting.”

“Nature had a lot to say!” The guard snapped at him.

The Elf’s grin widened, and then he turned to Bofur, his eyebrows lifting. “You have hair.”

Bofur stared back at him uncomprehendingly.

“The hat. I thought you were bald.”

Bofur’s hat was in the tent. He lifted a hand self-consciously to his hair as Legolas turned back to the guards.

“I did not find your archer. I did, however, find three dead Orcs with their index fingers cut off.” He reported.

Khim snorted and held his hand out to Narvi, who sighed, reached into his pocket, withdrew a gold coin and slapped it into the other Dwarf’s hand.

Bilbo shook his head. Dwarfs.

“Pony?” Bofur asked.

Legolas shook his head. “Tracks suggest your archer decided to walk back toward Mirkwood. He’d have no idea where we were, so he’s heading for the nearest safe place. He’ll report from there, no doubt.”

Khim nodded. “He’ll do that. We’ll push on, ey?” He asked Bofur, who nodded.

“Nothing else to do,” he agreed. 

Legolas said to the guard, “I’ll take second watch. Wake me.” And without further comment, ducked and went into the other tent. Narvi shrugged and went in after him, and Bofur gazed at the closed tent flap for a moment.

“Come on,” Bilbo whispered, anxious to take the candle back into their tent and let darkness shroud their campsite again.

Bofur sighed and followed him in, and they clambered down into their bedrolls again.

“Well. Good news, anyway,” Bilbo said softly.

Bofur stroked his long mustaches. “Do you think he heard everything I said?” He asked, his brown eyes worried.

Bilbo thought about it. “He didn’t act like it.”

Bofur nodded and then curled up in his bedroll. “I am an idiot,” he mentioned off-handedly.

The Hobbit smiled sympathetically, but then his smile faded. “It… it might be best not to fall in love with someone who is so different from you.” He reflected, eyes on the candle again.

“I know,” Bofur said, and he was looking at the candle too. Then he leaned forward and blew it out.


	8. The Issue Develops

Thorin was in a wretched condition. His appetite was gone. He could not think of anything but getting together his rescue party, arming them, seeing to their provisions, and sending them off as quickly as possible. There were new issues every hour. 

He wanted to send Tauriel, not for any hostile reason, but because he respected her skills as tracker and fighter. But Kili wanted to go with her, and he did not want to send Kili, because frankly, Thorin was short on heirs. Fili was still hiding out in the Blue Mountains, and Kili was unlikely to have offspring with an Elf. If anything happened to them, Dain’s boy would be right back with his tail wagging.

The king knew Balin was right when he said, “you cannot risk it all for a Hobbit.” And, he thought, looking over at Kili, his nephew must not risk it all for an Elf. _Fine bunch they were,_ he thought with a barely suppressed snort. The Durin line, prone to gold-sickness and love-sickness. Lovers and fighters both, but leaders? Not very.

“You cannot go,” he said flatly to his nephew. “You cannot go for the same reason that I cannot go.”

“If she goes, I go,” Kili said calmly, packing dried strips of beef into the pouches he would tie to his belt.

Even Tauriel bade him to stay, stay and keep safe, but he just gave her a look from under the fringe of his dark hair, and kept packing.

Dwalin stalked by, a freshly-sharpened axe in his hands. “I don’t need her help,” he muttered, and Tauriel just gave him a shaming glance.

Ori, almost unnoticed, had stood by and watched proceedings. Finally he came to Thorin. “I’d like to go,” he said rather timidly, his ears pink with emotion.

Thorin gave him a long look, pondering what possible use the poor lad could be, and whether it was worth it to send him. “I know some healing herbs now. I’ve read about them. And Tauriel has shown me a few things, haven’t you?” He turned to her. 

She smiled graciously down at him. “You have been an excellent pupil.”

“Very well,” Thorin said shortly, and Ori’s eyes widened. Then he turned without another word and trotted off to layer up in his warmest clothes.

In the end, the rescue party that gathered by the huge gate of Erebor consisted of Dwalin, Ori, Dori, Nori, and 10 of Dain’s finest. Tauriel had struck a bargain with her stubborn husband: she would go with them as far as Mirkwood, gather what information she could, see if any Elf there would be disposed (or could be bribed) to help them, and then she promised to return with news.

They were just about to set off, mounted on their ponies, squinting in the afternoon sun (and the military contingent was grumbling about setting off at such a late hour. Travel 5 hours and it would be time to camp, what was the point of that? Leave tomorrow, makes more sense, grumble-grumble, but the King is in such a Hurry…!)

Suddenly, Tauriel shaded her eyes and looked up at the sky. Her intent stare brought the others to gradually fall silent and look up as well. Against the bright blue of the winter sky, a huge black crow was slowly, slowly circling the spectators out in the sunlight by the gates of the mountain kingdom.

The crow, shiny and sleek, slipped lower and lower until finally it decided to land on the top of the entrance gate. Only when it was landed and holding out a claw did they all become aware that a scroll was tied to its leg.

Tauriel approached it carefully, lifting her arm up, and the bird cocked its head at her with a most intelligent eye, and fluttered down to land on her forearm. Deftly, she freed the little scroll from its leg and the bird flew back up to its previous perch and settled comfortably in to watch her unroll it. 

“It is from Bofur!” She called out to the assembled gathering, “It says, _We have reached Rivendell but lost a guard, Pim, in an attack by Orcs. We think he escaped but do not know. Legolas the Elf Prince travels with us.”_

She looked up with a smile and all about the gathering, shoulders slumped in relief, and Ori, Dori, and Nori knocked heads together with a cheer. Even Dwalin looked less irritable for a moment. Of course, some of Dain’s contingent were now ready to grumble that they had packed up all those provisions and armored up for nothing, and now they’d have to put it all back again, grumble, grumble, grumble. But being soldiers, one of the great joys of their lives was talking about how ignorant and incompetent their superiors always were, so in their own way, they were happy.

Thorin was torn. He was dizzy with relief to know that Bilbo was not killed, was not captured, was not in danger…. But some tiny part of him had begun to imagine his rescue party snatching the Hobbit from the claws of disaster and bringing him back to Erebor, frightened and grateful. To be his again, and no more of this nonsense and drama of resistance and avoidance and abandonment. He didn’t even realize how much his mind had begun to believe in the possibility until he felt that odd mixture of relief and offense at this turn of events.

He did his best to smother the unworthy thoughts, and the bubble of disappointment that he would not be the hero in Bilbo’s story. Approaching Tauriel, he held his hand out for the note, read it himself to see if there was any word from Bilbo that she had omitted to mention before the assembled crowd, but there was not.

He lifted his head with a sigh and said, “I must write a response. Wait here with the crow, I will return.”

Tauriel nodded and reached into her pack for some treats for the messenger, who hopped down again to accept them as the assembled crowd dispersed back into the mountain.

In Balin’s office, Thorin dipped a quill into the ink and pondered how to beg the Hobbit to return without seeming to be begging a Hobbit to return.

_Brave Bofur,_

_I am glad you are safe. The pony of the guard has returned. We hope to hear from the guard himself soon. Please tell Bilbo that if he has a change in his heart and wishes to return, he will be as welcome as he could wish to be. All my promises remain in effect._

_-Thorin_

He wasn’t satisfied with it, but Thorin was unwilling to beg in a missive that others might see. He waved it dry, rolled it up, and returned to the gates where Kili and Tauriel were standing very close together, heads nearly touching. Their relief at not being parted was evident. Thorin envied them.


	9. King Elrond

Rivendell welcomed the Hobbit. The morning the travelers woke and knew they were only a day’s journey away (by trudging pony), Legolas galloped ahead on his silvery-white mount (Bofur gazing after him with silent, heartsick longing) to notify King Elrond of the party’s arrival. By early afternoon, a small contingent of Elves was galloping out to meet them, for both Legolas and King Elrond had developed a fondness for the Hobbit. He was such a combination of intrepid courage and trusting vulnerability, he reminded the long-lived, slightly jaded Elves of… something. Something from long ago, they knew not what.

But word had it, for Legolas had overheard more than Bofur realized outside the tent, that King Thorin had been “brutish” to his harmless little companion, and it did not sit well with Elves. Indeed, they remembered well his desperation to keep the Hobbit, down to the bizarre psycho-drama with the “stolen” Arkenstone, which they’d figured out well enough, and the disturbing rumors of Thorin’s final, violent meltdown that had frightened even Gandalf.

Now Bilbo was making his escape from his coarse, Dwarfish lover, and the Elves who knew of it hoped it was his final escape. As Elves, of course, they avoided getting involved. But they did have opinions, and their opinion of Dwarves in general was that they were a suspicious, grasping, hard-hearted bunch—although Elves had respect for their tenacity in life and war. And they made very pretty things with their gold and their precious gems. Indeed, Elves often marveled that such rough creatures could create such beauty. And fight so well. Still, over all, they were hard to love. Elves almost believed Dwarves made themselves unlovable on purpose. Some sort of pre-emptive “I will reject you before you can reject me” sort of mindset. But they did not know, and did not lay awake nights wondering. Dwarves were what they were. Very well. When they behaved well, one dealt with them, and when they behaved badly, one avoided them.

But now comes the innocent Hobbit, enslaved, brutalized, clearly brainwashed… King Elrond had watched them as they passed through on their initial return to Erebor, observed their interactions, seen how lightly the King and the Dwarf emissaries had taken his comfort (although Thorin was certainly jealous of Bilbo’s attentions.) Like a child, that Dwarf King was, Elrond had thought at the time. He did not want any one else touching his favorite toy, but he’d leave it lying on the floor without a thought otherwise.

Thus Elrond, when he learned of the situation, was most willing to help. When the younger Prince of Mirkwood came galloping up, hair flying, King Elrond received notice of his arrival, and met him with pleasure. What business they had was of official and uncontroversial content. When it was over, Legolas told him of his real mission.

“I traveled here with a party from Erebor. Bilbo the Hobbit is leaving King Thorin, or attempting to. I believe we must get that unfortunate Hobbit to some safe place before the Dwarf King devours him like a mince-meat pie.”

Elrond gave a wry smirk at the description. “Indeed. I am surprised Thorin is not already picking bits of Hobbit from his teeth.”

Legolas gave one of his rare smiles, but it faded. “The poor creature. I do not know what was done to him, but he is very changed. He does not raise his eyes. He rarely speaks. He is very thin.”

King Elrond grew serious. It was a small matter, really. A runaway lover, sexual peccadillos… Kings of great civilizations eyed kings of other great civilizations with a sort of sympathetic dislike. They were natural competitors. Yet, they were also the only ones who understood what each was going through in that weighty role. Thus, while Elrond did not particularly care for Thranduil, for example, nor did Thranduil care for Elrond, when they met, the air was full of a sort of charged, painful animus. Like children who had survived an abusive childhood together, they understood each other all too well. 

As a King, Elrond respected Thorin’s determination, his dedication, his almost psychotic commitment to freeing and ruling Erebor. Had he himself been deposed by a dragon, Elrond almost shuddered to think of the internal rats that would have gnawed at him, for the only thing more torturous than wearing the crown… was not wearing it. 

But as a creature of feeling and delicacy… Elrond could honestly say, he did not approve of what he knew of the case of the enslaved Hobbit. Well, something could be said for Thorin’s obvious fealty and faithfulness. One could search far and wide and be able to turn up no witness that could testify that Thorin had touched anyone but that Hobbit from the moment he’d snatched up the poor creature to today. When Dwarves love, they do it very steadfastly. Unfortunately, it was not uncommon to see that when Cupid struck Dwarves, their romantic maneuvers were more axe than arrow. And if this was too much for a Hobbit (and any Elf could well imagine it), one must be sympathetic to the hapless creature caught up in the maelstrom that was an unstable Dwarf King in love.

Thus it was that King Elrond nodded and immediately turned to direct one aide to send out a welcoming party to accompany Bilbo over the last bit of terrain safely, and another aide to see to preparing the guest wing for the Hobbit and his escorts.

“How many,” Elrond asked Legolas, before sending off that second aide.

“Four,” the Prince replied, “Yet I think two will leave shortly and return to Erebor. I am not completely certain the Hobbit will go all the way home. If he does, the one with the hat, Bofur, will undoubtedly accompany him, and I think I shall myself. It would be both a good deed and an entertaining one.”

The Elves exchanged another amused look, and Elrond thought, not for the first time, that Thranduil’s sons were all far more likable than Thranduil himself. The mother must have been… quite normal. Never underestimate the power and influence of a decent mother, he told himself.

Legolas continued, “But what the poor creature needs is not necessarily his home, though I am told he yearns for it. His fellow Hobbits are unlikely to understand him any longer, nor be able to offer much comfort. I think his best chance of healing and renewal lies here, if your Highness permit.”

Elrond tipped his head in appreciation for both the acknowledgement of the recuperative powers of Rivendell, and for the awareness of the service being asked.

“We will make Bilbo comfortable. A lone Hobbit and a sympathetic Dwarf are not heavy burdens.”

Legolas gave Elrond a grateful look. How lucky Arwen was, he thought for what was not the first time, to have such a father.


	10. A Sort of Peace

Bilbo lay in the soft bed, gazing up at the vaulted ceiling. With his usual brand of effortless delicacy, Elrond had not put Bilbo in the same room he had shared with Thorin. He instead had offered his guest a small, charming suite of rooms, which featured a kitchenette and dining area, and a bedroom with a tidy, chaste bed for one. It also featured a neatly made desk stacked with books from the library that were suspiciously suitable, being on gardening, cooking, herb-lore, and travel. 

Outside the bedroom, a balcony with a polished, curved wooden railing looked down over a lush garden of ferns and smooth stones, and a stream burbled through the center of it. It was soothing, refreshing, healing even. At the far edge was a weeping willow tree, whose long tendrils drooped down to the mossy ground. A cliff face rose up just beyond the garden, so that while the sun shone down on the ferns and the willow for several precious, warming hours each day, it never glared into Bilbo’s rooms. The rock wall ensured that no winter wind touched the delicate fronds, and at night, lanterns on the ground lit the fronds from underneath and kept them warm. The Elves had captured a pocket of summer, somehow.

And as he lay on the bed and looked out the window, it occurred to Bilbo that even the view was symbolic, or was a message, or was… deliberate in some way. That is… there was no long-range view. You could not stare out at the horizon. You could not gaze at far away hills and remember the past, or imagine the future, or eternity. You looked out and you saw the rising wall of rock. You looked down and saw the peaceful fern garden. It was a place for ruminating on the right-here, right-now. It was a timeless view that made it hard to ascertain what hour of the day it was. It was suspended in time. It was a place for solitary reflection and contemplation.

Bilbo appreciated it. The entire suite, with its secluded, ascetic aspect (though clearly meant to be of the Comfortable Monk variety) and the inward, reflective view of the peaceful garden, was perfectly suited to his mood. It reminded him of the way he’d drifted, withdrawn, exhausted, unable to process anything more than an arm’s length away. This cocoon was intuitively given to him as a place to hide and heal, and … yes, he appreciated it.

As Legolas predicted, once Bilbo settled in and seemed unwilling to respond to remarks about “the next leg of the journey,” Bofur quietly indicated to the guards that they could probably return to Erebor “for the time being.” The understanding being that when (if) Bilbo decided to push on to the next leg of the journey, arrangements could be made then. There was no hurry.

In a private meeting with Legolas and Bofur (which was absolute bliss to Bofur, as it seemed to put him on an equal and intimate footing with his hero, and there was food) the king made it clear that two suites, one for Bilbo and one for Bofur, could easily be maintained indefinitely. The Rivendell coffers could support two amusing little free-loaders such as them for a lifetime. Bofur sent word to Thorin accordingly and wondered what the king would make of it: Bilbo settling in at Rivendell… just far enough away to be safe from the moods and tempers of his king, but not so far as to be on the other side of Middle Earth.

Bilbo, for his part, sank into his therapeutic retreat without a struggle. To simply live quietly in these peaceful, well-lit, beautiful rooms, and not have to deal with any stress whatsoever was a balm. Even in those three months he’d spent at the Shire, he had not felt so protected, so cradled, as he did in Rivendell. His home had been familiar and comforting, to be sure, but the nostalgia of it had been very intense. And of course, the other Hobbits in the Shire were burning with curiosity, and had found multiple excuses to tap on his door.

But Rivendell, well. Elves might be curious, but they did not come to your door under the pretext of borrowing a cup of sugar in order to peek about the house and see if you’d run to hoarding or dirt from your time with the dragon.

The Elves left Bilbo strictly alone. The King issued a standing invitation to dinner, but ensured the Hobbit’s kitchen was well-stocked, and Bilbo preferred to putter about there than to sit at the long, formal, court dining table and be the object of discrete, inquisitive politeness. 

Bofur, of course, accepted the dinner invitations, and the evenings that he was placed near Legolas were the evenings that the candles burned brightest, even though their banter consisted of little other than Legolas mockingly congratulating him on killing one Orc… one!... and Bofur stoutly maintaining that it was the one Orc who was about to put a sword into the Elf’s kidney, so it was the only one that really counted.

The Elf especially enjoyed teasing Bofur when they were placed on opposite sides of the table, for one did not talk across the table, but it didn’t stop anyone from addressing those at their side in a manner meant to be heard across the table. Thus Legolas could sometimes be heard innocently saying to some random dinner companion,

“Have I read which poem? Oh, the epic by Honoria, yes, I believe I read it… ONE time.” Then he’d dart a glance to Bofur, who pretended to scowl in frustration, but of course, loved every second of it.

“A black stallion? Hm… yes, my father does have ONE. But ONLY ONE, alas.”

Bofur turned to his own dinner companion, an elderly Elf with rather vague eyes and said, “Try the KIDNEY beans. Just take your fork and STAB one. That’s all it’ll take!” He demonstrated with a sharp stab at a bean.

“I see,” said the elder, drawing back with some unease.

Across the table, Legolas’s eyes were fairly sparkling with amusement. He turned back to his left. “But I only rode him ONE time.”

“Ye can even saw the beans in half if they’re too big, see?” Bofur demonstrated, attacking a bean with his knife. “Nice sharp knife goes right through them!”

The elder Elf glanced around as though he thought he might need help soon.

“Yes, I have ONE sister. JUST ONE.”

“Look at this poor bean on the tip of my knife. Look at that. Sad sight, isn’t it? I just came up behind it and—bang! That was it.”

“She has been to Rivendell only ONE time—“

“Bit of ketchup is nice with beans…. Oh look, doesn’t that look like blood?!”

When the King’s daughter at the far end rose to lead the women through, the elder Elf went quickly with them, declaring himself in no need of after dinner brandy on this night.

Bofur stared at Legolas and then ate the skewered, bloody bean off the tip of his knife. The blond Elf raised his brows and, as the plates (and women) were cleared away and the rules relaxed, said, “You must not have been hungry. You ate… only ONE!” And they eyed each other with great enjoyment.

But after dinner, the Elf always strolled away to join his usual friends and do whatever it was handsome young Elves did in the evenings, and Bofur sighed, and returned to his rooms to whittle, and stare out as his own view of the fern garden (being near Bilbo’s rooms) and eagerly wait for the morrow. Occasionally he wrote an update and sent it to Thorin. If there were any visiting Dwarves, he went and had weak, watery pints with them in the rather too posh pubs that Rivendell boasted. Over all, however, like Bilbo… he was content. He was content as long as Legolas remained.

Well… content in a tortured, yearning kind of way.


	11. You've Got Crow-Mail

Thorin was experiencing a bit of tortured yearning himself. As the weeks passed, he prowled more restlessly about his kingdom, and it was not lost upon his subjects that King Thorin hardly ever sat down. Those events that required him to sit on his throne, he endured with the sort of grim patience that made new arrivals whisper that perhaps he needed more fiber in his diet. The rest of the time, he prowled. He developed a routine of touring the entire kingdom in the mornings, from the boilers to the kitchen to the dispensary to the offices to the armory to the treasury to the Great Hall to the living quarters to the terraces…. Where he inspected the gardens and then stared toward Mirkwood.

After lunch, he prowled outside the gates and watched the guards and the soldiers drill, and then stalked around to survey the roads toward Dale, and then came back inside to check the library, and then left and descended into the mines and peered down shafts, and listened to reports.

After supper, he lurked in the Great Hall, eying those who came and went until they sped up with nervousness and went about their business very briskly. When the Great Hall was finally empty, Thorin went to bother Dwalin, or Balin. He did not go to his rooms until his eyes were heavy.

The Dwarfs, for the most part, dealt with their rather-too-intense king fairly well. He wasn’t gold sick, they were fairly sure of that. He gazed at the Arkenstone with satisfaction quite often, but didn’t fall into any trances or become peculiar about it. 

He simply had nothing to do but oversee operations and make decisions, and when there were no operations to oversee, he went hunting for decisions. And when there were no decisions to make, he sussed out more operations, and once rather startled the Dwarfs who had re-discovered the clay pit and started to make pottery. One little Moria Dwarf was carefully molding a bowl one afternoon, and looked up to find the burning blue eyes of the king staring down at her in full regalia. She let out a shriek and flung her hands up, and wet clay went everywhere. Thorin had to pick bits of it out of his hair later.

The brightest spots of his day were the short, awkward missives Bofur sent from Rivendell in an effort to keep him informed. They arrived by crow-mail.

_Bilbo seems happy in his suite. He has a view of a garden. He reads a lot of books. He doesn’t eat with the rest of us._

Another day: 

_King Elrond thinks Bilbo should stay in Rivendell because in the Shire the Hobbits will be curious and bother him and he won’t have peace._

That one made Thorin’s heart pound, for if Bilbo did not go all the way back to the Shire, he was nearer. And perhaps, one day… well.

_Bilbo sometimes walks with Legolas and they talk, but I don’t know what they say. Legolas showed him a path to one of the more popular waterfalls. He stared at it for a long time._

And Thorin responded as best he could:

_The guard, Pim, came back. Ori asked about Bilbo. See if you can get him some drawing paper and pencils. He likes to draw. All is well here. Your brother has a new clay pot. We make clay pots now, apparently._

Gradually, the missives became shorter, but more frequent. Thorin learned that liberal offerings of dried fruit made the Rivendell-to-Erebor flight path a popular one among crows, and short messages could be delivered within a dizzying six hours. Eventually, to save paper, Bofur and Thorin began writing answers on the same paper, thus creating a sort of conversation that developed over several days.

I _told Legolas about the paper and pencils and he got some for Bilbo. He’s drawing a picture of his view of the garden_

_-Does he ever talk to you?_

_Not very much. Only if I ask a question. He talks to Legolas._ (Thorin fancied he and Bofur shared a mutual snarl over that, but he didn’t acknowledge it.)

_-Does he go to the library? Is he studying Elven again?_

_Yes, he goes there every afternoon. He also likes the Koi pond in the center of the King’s garden._

_-Koi? What is Koi?_

_Golden fish, very large. Bilbo likes to feed them._

_-Can you eat them?_

_No, I think they are pets. Bilbo says it’s peaceful to look at them._

_-He should draw them. I have never seen a Koi. Can you pet them?_

_I will suggest it. Maybe he will. I don’t think you pet them._

_-Is he eating well?_

_Yes. Not so thin anymore. He also says he sleeps well._

_-Ask him if I may write to him._

And then the messages paused for a while.


	12. King Elrond is a Good Listener

Bilbo sat at his drawing table, looking toward Bofur, though not directly at him.

“Why?” Bilbo asked.

“I suppose… you did leave without saying goodbye.” Bofur said, not really wanting to push Bilbo into anything.

Bilbo turned back to his drawing of the fern garden. “I was forbidden to speak. If you can’t speak, you don’t say goodbye.”

“You were forbidden to speak??” Bofur asked, puzzled.

“…Yes,” Bilbo murmured, concentrating very hard on his drawing. Every fern frond had tiny, even, individual leaves with ruffled edges.

Bofur was confused. “How could he stop you from speaking?” 

Bilbo slapped the pencil down, sat back, and turned in his seat to stare at Bofur. “Do you see that willow tree down there?” He asked in a deceptively conversational tone, eyes intent.

Bofur glanced toward the balcony and nodded.

Bilbo continued. “You cut a long, thin branch from that tree and remove the leaves, and bring it to me, and I’ll show you how he stopped me.” He shut his mouth and stared up at the Dwarf who stood hesitantly near his desk.

Bofur’s dark eyes widened. He had to breathe through his mouth for a moment. Then he veritably backed away and only turned when he was near enough to the door to grope for it. The Hobbit watched him go with steady eyes, and then returned to his drawing.

Bofur retreated to his own suite and grabbed a new, small scroll of paper.

_Did you whip him and forbid him to speak? Because if you did, I don’t know why you are asking about him now. If he hates you, can you blame him?_

This note apparently shamed Thorin into silence for a while, and the messages stopped. 

The crows were not very happy at the sudden lack of dried fruit.

***

King Elrond found the Hobbit sitting on the ground by the Koi pond, his legs crossed, head bowed, looking hunched, miserable, and distant. Despite his advanced years, the Elf folded himself easily down and sat at his guest’s side. Then he waited without speaking.

They sat in silence for a long time. Finally Bilbo spoke quietly.

“I feel like a fool. That’s what keeps me awake at night. Not that I am damaged, although I am. Not that I miss him, although sometimes I do. But that I am such a fool. That I have put myself in harm’s way again and again.”

“You are angry with yourself,” Elrond observed, which was not particularly insightful, but it is sometimes helpful to have one’s feelings condensed neatly into a manageable sentence.

“How can I know what to do? I make the wrong decision every time.” Bilbo said, staring at the Koi. One particularly beautiful silver fish was lurking near the edge, hoping for crumbs.

“What decision would have been right? How could all of this have been prevented?” Elrond asked, more out of curiosity than helpfulness (although he did sincerely want to help.)

Bilbo sighed. “I… Thorin would say I should have listened to him instead of Dain. Entered Erebor openly, at his side, instead of letting Dain sneak me in separately to avoid controversy.”

“This is what Thorin is angry about?” Elrond looked almost irritated in his bafflement.

“He says that it looks as though he was ashamed of me, and that he snuck me in to deceive his people.” Bilbo explained.

Elrond’s face smoothed out and his eyebrows lifted. “Ah. I see. He has a point.”

Oddly enough, this observation lifted Bilbo’s spirits a bit. It was a relief to think that Thorin was not simply an unreasonable monster—and therefore Bilbo was not so foolish as to be in love with an unreasonable monster. “He said he wanted to deal with any possible controversy immediately, upon arrival, rather than try to hide it and have it erupt into scandal later.”

Elrond was nodding meditatively. “This is a valid stance.”

“But Dain said the situation was precarious and that many of the Dwarfs already thought Thorin was mad, and if he came back with me they would say he was still unable to let me go and focus on ruling his kingdom.”

Elrond’s brows drew down again. “A compelling argument, given the circumstances,” he said slowly. “I can see why you were torn as to whom to listen to.”

“And Thorin said that I owed him my loyalty and obedience, and that I didn’t trust his judgment.” Bilbo finished.

“But he is right. You did not trust his judgment. And even now, you do not know if he was right. You listened to Dain instead, because he was a tried and tested leader, a king with experience and no hint of madness. If I were in your situation, I would have listened to Dain as well.” Elrond said.

Bilbo stared at him. “But you said Thorin had a point.”

“He did. The question is not who was right. They both were right about the part of the problem they most wanted to address. And it could have gone either way. The question… one of the questions… is whom did you trust? You did not trust Thorin, and now you do not trust yourself, because you love someone you do not trust.”

Bilbo thought that over. “Yes.”

They were silent again for a while. Then Bilbo spoke again. 

“I think we’ve both made mistakes that go back to… I don’t even know. Go back and back and back.”

He reached into his pocket and drew out some bread crumbs, and tossed them to the silver fish that waited. 

“I think now I shouldn’t have gone with him at all. I should have returned to the Shire and said goodbye, let him return to Erebor and be King without me. No scandal, no controversy, no anger. But I couldn’t. We’d been together for months, so tight together, and happy together, I couldn’t imagine living without him.” Bilbo said. “So then I think… that it means I shouldn’t have gone to the Blue Mountains at all, I should have left him to recover in peace and we never would have gotten so involved. But I missed him. I missed him for months. And THEN I think… if I’d never been captured in the first place, by the Orcs, I would never have been sold to Smaug and never ended up in Thorin’s hands at all. We’d never have met. None of this would have happened.”

Now Bilbo was talking faster. “So if I’d stayed at home and not gone exploring so far from the Shire, hadn’t gotten so close to the mountains, none of this would have happened. But I was bored, I wanted adventure, I wanted to explore…. So my whole personality is to blame. I am to blame from beginning to end! I am … an unsafe Hobbit. I am inherently unsafe.” Bilbo finally declared. “And it makes me feel like… I wish… I had not been born.” He bowed his head.

Elrond, who had been smiling slightly throughout the recital, grew serious at the Halfling’s last pronouncement. He leaned toward Bilbo.

“You are not the first to feel this way.” He said calmly. “Most of us make decisions based on our emotions, and later come to hate ourselves at least a bit… if the decisions turn out badly. Of course… if they turn out well, we congratulate ourselves on our wisdom.”

Bilbo was almost surprised by the chuckle that welled up inside of him. He turned and smiled directly at the Elf King for the first time since he’d sat down. “Is that how it works?” He asked. “If things go well, we preen ourselves on our genius, and if things go badly, we hate ourselves for being such fools?”

Elrond gave that deliberate tip of the head that passed for a nod. “Usually. Most creatures swing regularly between pride and shame, until they find a way of seeing that stops that pendulum from swinging back and forth so strongly.”

Bilbo continued to look at the King, his large soft eyes searching that sharp Elven face for answers. “How? How does one stop it?”

“Grow old,” The Elf recommended, a smile in his eyes.

“Oh, very helpful,” Bilbo quipped, but his spirits were lifting steadily.

Elrond relented. “It is natural for many of us to look at life as a problem to be solved, and our minds as the key to solving it. Then, when we fail to get the ‘right answers,’ we are angry at ourselves. But all around us, others are trying to solve it as well. We sometimes clash. And we look to the ending to tell us who was right. But we only see one of the many possible endings, thus we do not know who was right.”

Bilbo listened quietly.

“Bilbo, let me ask you: what awaits you in the Shire?” Elrond said unexpectedly.

Bilbo drew in his breath and sat up straight. “My house.”

“Anything else?”

“… Not really.” Bilbo admitted. “I never had many close friends. I was always a bit of a misfit. No enemies, I mean. I don’t fight with others. I just… never quite fit in.”

“Do you miss your home?” The Elf King asked.

Bilbo smiled sheepishly. “When I was with Thorin, I missed my home. When I was home, I missed Thorin.”

“For a while, your choice was clear,” Elrond observed.

Bilbo sobered. “Yes. When Thorin was good to me, I was happy.”

“And it did not seem like a bad decision then, and you did not hate yourself.”

The Hobbit nodded, staring down at the Koi again. The Elf unfolded himself and stood. “I must tend to my various duties. I hope we will have a chance to speak again.”

Bilbo clambered politely to his feet as well. “It’s… it’s very kind of you, to let me stay here, and talk to me, and try to help me get all sorted.”

The king merely smiled down at him. “It is no difficulty. Stay as long as you need.” Then he left, and Bilbo, after offering one last handful of crumbs to the eager gold and silver fishes that thrashed under the water’s surface, returned to his rooms.


	13. Thorin Writes

Thorin was, for once, in the royal chambers. He was sitting at the maple desk, staring at the last drawing of his own lonely shadow. Unlike Bilbo, he did not feel comfortable listing his sins to anyone else. Even Balin. But he was listing them to himself.

When he’d finished listing them to himself, he went to the dining table, now always empty, took a scroll and quill, and sat down to write a letter. Even if Bilbo didn’t want to read it, Thorin felt that he must write it.

_Dearest Bilbo,_

_I am almost afraid to write what I will, for fear this letter will fall into the hands of others. But I must, although by doing so I will give you the means to shame me publicly should you ever choose. I hope that by giving you these means, you will feel the return of some of the freedoms I took from you._

_I should not have punished you. I still think you did wrong, but I should have accepted the deed as done. Or maybe I did but I was angry that you continued to insist that you were right. I do not know what angered me more… probably your insistence… but whatever it was, my fear of destroying my second chance at Erebor has probably destroyed any third chance with you. For that I am sorry._

_I am sorry for selfish reasons, however. I am sorry because hurting you has caused me to lose you, and I am sorry for myself for losing you. You see how honest I am trying to be._

_But I am also sorry because to see you look the way you did near the end of our time together made me feel very uneasy and ashamed. I did not like to admit to anyone what I had done._

_And I keep thinking back… how could I have done things differently? I can see so many mistakes along the way. Perhaps I should not have brought you with me, but asked you to wait in the Shire, or Rivendell, until I could feel safe in sending for you. But I took such comfort in your presence during the journey, and was so filled with anxiety. I needed you, or I felt I did._

_I should not have told you that you were a liability. It obviously caused you to feel that Dain was right when he made it clear that he felt the same. I told you I wanted you at my side, but we both told you that your presence could be damaging to me, so I should not have been surprised when you believed it._

_Then I go back further and think… if I had not made you my slave to begin with, none of this would have happened. I should have released you the moment I found you here. The Elves were right—how I hate to say that! And yet, even here, while I know I was wrong, I cannot wish I’d never taught you to love me, or grown to love you._

_So you see what I am, still. Selfish to the bone. I am not sorry I made you mine, because it made me happy, and I am mostly sorry for any actions I took later because they made me lose you and now I am unhappy. I worry I will never be any better than this. I probably do not deserve even what I currently have: riches, my kingdom, and friends that stay by me even though they know what I am._

_But there is one more thing I want. I want you back. Please come back. I will listen to you, and you will help me be better, I swear to you._

_Thorin_

Then he rolled the scroll up, went to Bombur to procure a goodly handful of dried fruit, and then climbed up to the terraces outside to stare toward Mirkwood and wait to see if some hungry crow was nearby.


	14. Indirect Interactions

Bilbo received the scroll when he was in the Elves’ library, sipping a coffee and perusing a book on gardening. Of course, his concentration was immediately shattered when one of Elrond’s many aides silently approached him, gave a light bow, and handed Bilbo the letter. He accepted it uneasily, but unrolled it and read, one knuckle in his mouth the entire time.

When it was finished, he rolled it back up again and sat, breathing rather rapidly. He was afraid, frankly. Afraid of making another wrong decision, and it seemed to Bilbo like no matter which way he turned, he ran the risk of creating a lifetime of unhappiness—either of loneliness or stress—and as Elrond had said, hating himself for being too daring, or not daring enough. Too loving, or not loving enough. Too forgiving, or not forgiving enough.

Whatever he was to do, he simply could not do it yet. His chest felt full of mud and dried leaves; he was ill with indecision, pain, fear, sadness, shame… the shame was the worst. The feeling, still, that he had brought it all upon himself, and that he was unable even now to either commit himself to creating a life based on peace, safety, and dignity… or one built on self-sacrifice, love, and forbearance. 

Wracked with indecision, the Hobbit slowly made his way back to his rooms, unable to even formulate an outline of a reply to Thorin’s letter. At this point, he still had nothing to say to his king. Indeed, there was enough resentment lingering in his hurt little heart to feel as though Thorin had beaten him into silence, and silent he would remain toward Thorin until… well, he didn’t know.

And yet, he thought, I do love him. Or at least, I could not love anyone else. Even now, he could close his eyes and imagine himself nestled against Thorin’s larger, warmer body, imagine the brush of his beard as he burrowed his face into Bilbo’s neck and kissed it, and suckled on mouthfuls of the sensitive skin, a knowing smirk on his face when he finally lifted it to gaze down at his lover. And those large, warm hands. He still responded to the memory of them. He could not imagine anyone else touching him. 

Bilbo took a deep breath to clear his head. He wanted to communicate, but he didn’t know what he wanted to say. Finally, he drifted over to his desk and looked at his drawing pad. He remembered, vaguely, that Thorin had looked at his pictures, and had installed a desk for him to draw at. On impulse, Bilbo carefully removed a drawing he had done of the Koi pond and rolled it up. He tied it with a bit of string, and took it to Bofur, not knowing how or where one went about approaching a crow.

 

***

When Thorin received the drawing that evening, his first act was to retreat to his rooms so that he could peruse it in private. He unrolled it and ran his eyes over the colors of the gold and silver fish, and the curves of their lithe bodies. He perused the blue water, the green pads that floated on it, the shining dark rocks that bordered it. It was like being in Rivendell for a moment, at Bilbo’s side as he gazed down. It made him feel better to look at it. His heart lightened for a moment. He hoped it was--he was sure it was--a friendly gesture on Bilbo’s part, although it was accompanied with no words. He wondered if that was deliberate.

Probably.

It wasn’t an answer. It was a response, but not an answer. Or if it was an answer, it was merely “Wait.”

He took it to Gloin to see about having it framed and mounted. Then he prowled his kingdom, reviewing possible plans for getting Bilbo back to the Lonely Mountain. Part of him simply wanted to lure Bilbo close enough to snatch him back. He knew this was not a noble impulse, but felt he would be so good and loving to the Hobbit that he’d soon be glad to be back. To do this, he’d have to get Bilbo to at least return as far as Mirkwood.

His better side urged him to learn patience, and hope that Bilbo’s time in Rivendell helped him recover, and he would no longer be the silent, confused wraith he’d been after—Thorin found that he didn’t like, even in his head, to say, “after I caned him that second time.” 

But he was positively itching to get his Hobbit back. When he wasn’t concentrating on his royal duties, he was imagining cradling his lover, stroking him, feeding him, kissing him… loving him. He wanted to bury his face in that soft tummy and wrap his arms around the squirmy body. He wanted to sleep with that pliant form in his arms again. He wanted to feel Bilbo’s fingers in his hair once more (although he wouldn’t be surprised if the Hobbit flatly refused to ever touch it again.) Thorin vowed he’d take what he could get.

The danger was, of course, that he really would TAKE whatever he could get. It was, after all, his nature.

Thorin took a deep breath and tried to focus on something else. The sun was high in the sky. This was a good time to go watch the army’s training maneuvers.

***

Bofur was in the stables, grooming the fat little ponies that had brought him and Bilbo to Rivendell. He’d smuggled some apples from the Elf King’s luncheon sideboard and had chopped them into quarters to make them last longer. When he’d made the ponies happy, he glanced over at Legolas’s gorgeous white steed, who was watching the apple business with close attention.

“Ye think I’ll get in trouble if I ruin your diet?” He asked conversationally, drifting over to the gleaming white horse.

It nodded affirmation, and Bofur grinned and looked over his shoulder quickly.

“Then you’ll want to be quiet about it,” he said in a low voice, and offered the beautiful creature an apple quarter. The horse lipped it up deftly from the Dwarf’s hand and crunched it appreciatively.

“You like another? Oh, you would, eh? Well, alright, then, but let’s keep it between the two of us.” Bofur murmured, feeding the rest of the chunks to the enthusiastic mount.

“Maybe I can make you love me, at any rate,” Bofur breathed. “Pity the same trick won’t work on your master.” With a last wry grin, he patted the horse’s nose and left the stables.

When he was gone, a tall, pale figure stepped from the small, nearby anteroom where he had been working oil into the leather of his gear.

With a little smile, Legolas stroked his horse’s silver-gray mane. “You should have told him to try grapes,” he said quietly. The horse nodded again. Legolas combed his fingers through the long, rough hairs for a moment, patted the smooth neck, and then returned to his work. He was neither disturbed nor surprised by what he’d overheard. He had been alive for a long time, and had been a beautiful Prince and an impressive warrior for the majority of that time. He was accustomed to being fallen in love with, and rather jaded about how long it would last. No one loved from afar for very long. They selected him as the fantasy figure in their dreams, imagined how elevating it would be to be loved by an Elf Prince. They waited for him to notice and love them back. When he didn’t… they eventually accepted it, learned to love someone else, and went away. 

He’d been loved by many an Elf, and many a human, both man and woman. First time for a Dwarf, though. Legolas smiled faintly as he placed the harness on the hooks, and dried his long, elegant hands on a cloth. It would be interesting to see if Dwarfs followed the usual pattern.


	15. Plotting

The situation drifted along in this manner for some weeks. Bilbo hid in Rivendell, dreaming of the safety and sunshine of his quiet little home, of domesticity built to his scale, of mornings in his garden, and afternoons cooking, and evenings by the fire. It was a comforting dream, and all he had to do to make it reality was turn to Bofur, or King Elrond, and say, “I’m ready to go back to the Shire, can you help me?”

But for some reason, he didn’t. Possibly because his evening musings as he lay in his chaste bed looking out at the fern garden were rather different. He remembered the vaulted, dark ceilings of Erebor, and the blazing torches that flickered and burned in the corridors, and on pillars in the Great Hall… and on the wall of the royal chambers. He remembered the heavy wooden furniture and the huge platform of a bed. And he remembered Thorin’s scent, and his voice, and his touch. He remembered deep kisses and exquisite pleasures. Risky games, sometimes a bit painful, but always followed by passion, and release, and warm, tight embraces, and caresses, and a feeling of being cherished and alive. So alive!

The memories of the Shire were not so much about feeling alive. They were about feeling at peace. But he was not sure that peace really awaited him in the Shire, or that adoration and pleasure really awaited him in Erebor. So Bilbo lingered in the limbo of Rivendell, stalling, distracting himself with the library, and drawing pictures.

No one pressured him. Elrond found his little guest rather a nice treat to talk to from time to time, distracting the Elf King from his usual routine, reminding him of simpler times. Encouraging him to appreciate the Koi pond, which he’d nearly forgotten about.

Legolas seemed in no hurry to return to Mirkwood. He had friends in Rivendell, and a nature to be contented anywhere, really. 

Bofur, of course, would stay wherever Legolas was quite cheerfully. Their dinner conversation had moved on to interesting remarks on the symbolism of metals and gemstones, and the significance of the Dwarven fascination with the easily manipulated gold as opposed to the Elven love of the sturdy, unchanging diamond. (They both agreed that silver had a wistful quality, which suited the short-lived humans.) But then they bickered about the relative value of sapphires and emeralds and rubies, and which were vulgar, and which were evocative, and which were reassuring, and which either of them would have set in a ring if for some reason either of them wanted a ring.

The Elf guided the conversations, and the puzzled Dwarf kept up as best he could. In his spare time he began accompanying Bilbo to the library to look up books on gems. It occurred to him that he would very much like Legolas’s opinion on amethysts.

It was Thranduil who finally made a move that (for once) Thorin appreciated, for it set in motion events that might finally put an end to his estrangement with Bilbo, one way or another. The issue was the Orc attack, and the fact that there had been several in the rather wide-open, No Man’s Land between Mirkwood and Rivendell. Thranduil’s take on the matter was that the four kings: Bard, Thorin, Thranduil, and Elrond, ought to be able to put their heads together and come up with an effective deterrent for this trend. Even Dain might take part, if he were interested, Thranduil opined. Or that brat kid of his, whoever. 

The point was, a council was needed. They must convene. And Mirkwood was a nice, central location. The Wood Elf was perfectly ready to play host (in fact, rather itching to, since he now had a veritable treasure trove of diamonds and no one to wear them in front of.) He sent out invitations to all four corners.

Thorin received his invitation with unexpected pleasure. Mirkwood was closer to Rivendell. In fact, he was already considering ways to lure Bilbo to attend the gathering. Legolas must surely come back for it. Bofur might be anxious to return. Bilbo might be talked into accompanying them… then again, he might—if he were wise—decline, and stay in Rivendell, wait for the others to return so he could continue on to the Shire.

The trick was to get Bilbo to return to Mirkwood. Just as far as Mirkwood. And not even the side closest to the Lonely Mountain! No, the other side. Thorin was up on the terraces, pacing, the invitation clutched in his hand. A gift? A plea? Some trick? His brain was spinning. He must attend the council, certainly. And so must Bilbo. He must get the Hobbit to meet him in Mirkwood.


End file.
